


A Few Too Many Memories

by Brekah



Series: A Man of Strife and Trial [6]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friendship/Love, Hope, Loss, M/M, Redemption, Revenge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-04-11 21:50:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4453697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brekah/pseuds/Brekah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris finds an outlet to deal with Hawke's death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Man of Vengeful Intent

It had been a matter of saying the right thing. He'd been close. He'd said, “I'll always be ready when you have need of me,” when he should have said, “I am going with you.” She had smiled at him, the twisting of her lips not meeting her eyes as Kirkwall continued to add the scent of smoke to the sea air.

“It's good of you to help Varric. I'll keep in touch with him as I can. We'll meet back up before too long,” she had said, “and sort out all the bullshit that seems to insist on following us.” She'd squeezed his forearm, her eyes locked on the red glow they could barely see from the Storm Coast. That squeeze had hurt, sending lances of pain up his markings, but he had placed his hand over hers nonetheless. She had looked at him then, right into his eyes, her own eyes holding a mixture of sadness and anger and protectiveness.

“I'm sorry for everything, Fenris. Before you know it we'll sit and get drunk and fight until we understand each other again.”

He had smiled and held her hand. He had made himself lean in and had kissed her on the cheek. She had kissed him back—on the lips—and Isabela had stared at them with her mouth in a perfect “O,” floating in her little row boat waiting for Hawke to say her goodbyes.

“Varric will be needing you,” Hawke had said, though she sounded like she was convincing herself.

“I'll always be ready when you have need of me—” That was where he said the wrong thing. She had smiled at him—

“Soon,” she had promised, and then she had gotten into Isabela's boat. He had watched them bobbing on the waves, heart catching each time the row boat had ducked out of sight. But the boat was rowed by two of the strongest people he knew, and before long he watched the two women climb aboard the ship. The ship disappeared on the horizon just as the sun began to rise, erasing the red glow in the direction of Kirkwall and giving him an uneasy feeling, as though what was left of Hawke's legacy was being written over.

Now he sat in a closet among dust and disuse, rereading a letter by the faint glow of his own skin. Varric knew that Fenris still couldn't read as well as he wished he could; the words in the letter were written in a clear, steady hand, and the vocabulary was simple for one such as Varric Tethras. There were some things that Fenris still couldn't understand, either due to his own inability or the forceful rejection that flamed within him at every reading. Regardless, he understood enough. He understood that Hawke was dead.

The first person he had wanted to punish was the abomination, the mage that had started it all. The creature knew this, however, as it knew that so many would want its head. It had hidden itself very well, and Fenris could not muster enough of a trail to hunt the creature down.

The next obvious culprit was the person Hawke had sacrificed herself to save, the coward who had seen no reason to stand up and face his own fears. The Hero of Ferelden, or someone close enough, a Grey Warden with weight to his name. Fenris had seen the Warden's face once before, a brief interaction as Kirkwall fell around them. Varric had known that killing the Warden would cross Fenris's mind. He'd written that Fenris should respect Hawke's choice, that murdering the friend she'd died to save would be an insult to her memory.

That part of the letter was what put Varric on the list. Varric, who knew damn well what Hawke was to Fenris, to Aveline, to Isabela, to all of them. Varric, who had strictly failed to protect the one person to ever—

But it couldn't be Varric. Varric was already hurting, hurting nearly as much as Fenris, his loss wrapped up in regret and words left unsaid. Every breath Varric ever took would catch on Hawke's memory. Fenris found twisted solace in wishing the dwarf a long, long life.

Fenris carefully folded the letter and slid it into a pouch on his belt. The final candidate had been tricky to reach, but not impossible. All he had to do was listen to the stories, hearing them grow as a living monster fell to its doom and the tear in the sky bled closed. Once armed with their supposition Fenris had used the full extent of his pointed ears and claimed a right to a history that he cared little for. He had fought upon the streets of slums in Orlais, initiating himself with people whose concept of culture, as far as he could care, rested solely on the shape of one's ears and the lilt of one's accent. He'd listened to orders, committed silent assassinations, and orchestrated careful smugglings. He'd found the ladder and worked his way up it. Just as it all began to seem pointless he had at last walked the ways of the Eluvian and whispered the key to open a thousand doors. The correct door had opened to stone that all but hummed with history. He'd stepped through.

The Inquisitor was well loved and well feared but despite his guards and spies and friends no one had stopped Fenris as he moved through the Inquisitor's keep. Fenris had worn a heavy coat over his markings, the leather dimming their glow. He'd walked with purpose, even as he'd found a back approach to the Inquisitor's chambers. Fenris was ready to kill the man then and there but the Herald was not present. Fenris had stood in the center of the sun filled room, feeling the cold breeze as it slipped through the open windows. Such opulence, such decadence. All of this glory built upon the wanton sacrifice of others.

Fenris had known well that such magnificent chambers often came with unused corners, and he had easily found such a closet and hidden himself away. He had waited, listening to the comings and goings of the Inquisitor. He had watched the sun fade through the bottom of the closet door. He had listened to the Inquisitor take to his bed.

That had been an hour ago, according to the careful count Fenris had kept in a corner of his mind. Now he stood with his hand around the hilt of his sword, his thick coat discarded. He pushed the closet door open and stepped out into the chamber.

Moonlight slipped through gaps in the drawn curtains, tracing lines across the floor to the bed. The bed was all Fenris could focus on; the Inquisitor slept on a four-posted construction adorned with curtains, though the curtains were pulled back. Fenris moved to the bedside and looked down. The human was peaceful in sleep, with no sign of nightmares making their way across his still features. A long neck trailed into the wiry muscled body of a ranger. He'd tossed his blankets to his waist like a fitful child and slept with an arm over his head, monopolizing the side of the bed closest to Fenris, the side that Hawke would always take when she would have Fenris read to her.

Fenris stared at that long neck. He stared so long that he could see a faint pulsing in the throat. He gently placed his free hand upon that pulse, easily slipping his long fingers into place. He felt the resistance on each of his gauntleted finger-tips as each pressed into the elastic stretch of skin that didn't want to split. He gave a gentle squeeze—and then pulled his markings to life.

Something hit him hard—a wall of force sending him up high and far. Fenris knew it was a mage defense even before he hit the stone wall of the chamber. This knowledge didn't help him as he hit, a resounding impact that nearly made him lose the grip on his sword. He fell to the floor, pain shooting up his right leg as he landed. For a second Fenris caught the sight of another presence in the room, but the Inquisitor was shooting upright and Fenris closed the distance with all the quickness his marks could bear.

Fenris didn't have enough time to bring his sword around, but he did manage to crack the pommel against the Inquisitor's head. The blow landed hard, and Fenris could feel the skull give. It didn't crush, but it served well enough to send the Inquisitor back to his mattress, eyes staring at nothing. Fenris would finish the job after he killed the bodyguard. He thought this as he spun around, dodging an explosion of fire. The fire bounced off of a stone wall, turning a pile of books to ash as Fenris bounced into position.

The mage was a swirl of red and purple. He shouted and raised his arms, jerking them in a downward motion. The curtains ripped from the windows, allowing moonlight to pour into the room. The mage's eyes fell on the Inquisitor and Fenris charged, preparing himself as the mage moved his hands to direct another spell.

Suddenly Fenris could hear Hawke screaming, her voice torn from her despite her panicked gasps for air. He couldn't see the chamber around him—he could only see the shadowy edges of the Fade, could only see the large shape of a gigantic spider as it ripped Hawke asunder in perfect mimicry of the image he'd lived night after night, minute after minute since reading Varric's letter. He screamed back at her, running to the edge of the chasm she had been drawn into, too high up to do anything other than fall to his death and join her. That's exactly what he would do, he decided. He kept running, speeding up as the cliff neared him.

Something in the air stopped him, hitting him solidly against his waist. He almost fell over it but suddenly it was in his hands, landing him firmly against the railing of a balcony. He was looking out at snow covered mountains, the moon high over his head.

The floor below him began to glow and he launched himself backwards and away from another explosion of flame, landing hard and rolling across the floor of the chamber. It was not graceful, but he spotted his sword as he rolled and managed to retrieve it, bouncing to his feet as the mage swore in Tevene.

A Tevinter mage—how classic. Fenris almost laughed. Instead he felt his marks come back to life and burst into a charge. He moved faster than the naked eye could trace, bringing his sword across to slice the mage in half.

Time slowed—or quickened, so far as Fenris could tell. He suddenly felt as though he was moving through a great denseness of being—not a thickness of air, but a thickness of existence itself. He felt the tip of his sword draw across something, heard a quick exclamation of pain. The sword was yanked from his hand and the gauntlet followed. The fool mage—if it was still just a mage, and not some Fade-begotten monster—pulled the gauntlet without unfastening it, and a slow shout ripped from Fenris as he felt several bones in his wrist pop and crack with agonizing deliberation. He tried to pull away, staring with wide eyes as the gauntlet vanished when torn from contact with his skin, accelerating at an incredible speed towards far wall. There was a tug on the other gauntlet, and Fenris's intact wrist began to strain under the tension.

Time lurched forward, sending Fenris to stumble towards the mage. He used the stumble to drop and push himself into a kick at the line of red on the mage's abdomen. The kick landed and tore the gash further, leaving the mage to scream and crumble to the floor. Fenris's head jerked up as he heard someone attempting to break down the chamber door. He'd run out of time.

He moved back towards the Inquisitor. The human was still laying in the bed, his eyes slowly slipping towards Fenris's approach. The Inquisitor began to raise a hand and Fenris caught a glimpse of green—more foul magic. The hand was easy enough to bat aside; Fenris did so with his injured arm and raised his gauntleted hand to strike.

“ _Amatus!_ ” This a strangled shriek from the mage. Lyrium crackled up Fenris's arm—amatus indeed. As though loving someone could protect them from harm.

Fenris invoked Hawke's name as he brought his hand down to the Inquisitor's heart, remembering as much of her as he could in that single moment. The bite of her wit, her sharp eyes, her favorite staff; he even felt the burn of her touch—a light and anticipatory pain. He felt it grow, felt it engulf him—and it was a searing, terrible pain, a blinding pain, a pain that rocked him off of his feet. The pain ran down the length of each marking, and he was glowing, glowing brighter than he had ever made himself glow, screaming louder than he knew was possible. Then suddenly the pain was gone, leaving him to twitch on the cold stone and gasp for breath.

He twitched himself onto his back. He could do nothing more than that; his body would barely heed him. He focused on breathing, trying desperately to make his body forget the pain.

There was a commotion, a cacophony of voices all speaking at once. A horned head appeared over him, resting atop a figure as large as the former Arishok himself. Fenris tried to cover his head as the Qunari's body shifted. He was not successful; he felt the distinct sensation of a large boot connecting with his skull. His body forgot everything, then.


	2. A Well Placed Boot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Iron Bull knew one thing: most magic was something a well placed boot could handle, and the rest wasn't worth thinking about.

Seeing the prisoner had broken the boy. The Iron Bull felt the distinct crawl of fear make its way up his spine, siphoning upwards from the pit of his gut. The boy broke between silence and screaming and sometimes rage. The rage was the most frightening thing—it was in his rage that the boy seemed less the boy that he was and more the demon he had been, and demons could get in your mind and twist things up pretty bad.

Especially if they were demons that your boss championed, befriended, and even loved in a weird father-like sort of way. The Iron Bull shook his head. Boss had some crazy ideas, all just waiting to come bite them in the collective ass.

“I want to help!”

They were back at the screaming part now, with the boy pacing in the center of Josephine's office, hands pulling at his hair. He'd been shouting something along these lines since seeing the prisoner hours earlier. The Iron Bull leaned against the only door out to the main keep, raising an eyebrow any time the boy came near.

“I can solve it. I just need to help!”

“For the love of all that is good, Cole, will you shut the fuck up?” Dorian didn't look up from the fireplace. He sat slumped in one of Josephine's ridiculous chairs, curled over the tender wound across his gut. One of their magic healers had seen to it, but Dorian still moved as though he had become old in the last two days. “Why don't you help me by keeping your mouth shut, or silently thinking over the problem, or, I don't know, jumping out of the fucking hole on the way to the war room? Anything that will make your voice become a completely separate entity from my awareness, I thank you kindly, will be the most helpful thing you could ever accomplish.”

“Hey now, Sparkler—”

“Oh, no. No, no, no—not one word to me, Varric. Don't test this friendship. I'll say things so horrible your ancestors will spin in their graves, and I'll mean every damn word.”

Varric sighed, looking back at The Iron Bull and rolling his eyes for effect. The Iron Bull shrugged at him, though it was easy to see the hurt underneath the dwarf's exaggeration. He wore it like a second coat—or a blanket, more like, wrapped tightly around his shoulders and dragging him down.

“Hey kid,” Varric said as he hopped up from the second chair, “Let's go talk in the tavern. Get our thoughts together. We'll talk to Fenris when the time is right. Let's give him some more time to recover.”

The boy stared at Varric. “It should be a small thing, but it sticks in the lung and pulls the life away.”

“Yep. Just what I was going to say, kid. Come on.”

The Iron Bull moved away as the dwarf pulled open the door, Cole close on his heels. The door closed behind them, bringing on a silence better defined by the crackling of the fire. The Iron Bull took Varric's abandoned seat and looked into the flames, running the past few days through his mind.

An assassination attempt on the Inquisitor—embarrassing, to say the least. Never mind that The Iron Bull had once touted himself to be the best body guard there was; the very fact that some capable nut-job was able to slip through Skyhold's defenses and spend hours hiding in the Boss's own closet was enough to make the Inquisition hang its head for a good long time. Rumors were already flying around, half of them blaming inside sources and fictional turn-coats.

One rumor was made all the worse for the consequence that it was mired in. Varric and Cole had been gone to Kirkwall for a good long time after defeating Corypheus; they'd only come back to Skyhold one day before the attack. The link between Varric and the tattooed elf was literally written fact, leaving the dwarf to suddenly find that the ground beneath him had gone thin.

“Bull, pass me that bottle over there. The full one.”

The Iron Bull stood and grabbed a bottle off of the mantle, taking the second one for himself. “Glass?”

Dorian's eyes twinkled in the firelight as he shrugged. “The lovely Lady Montilyet will already have my head for drinking her wine. Why stand on formality?”

The Iron Bull chuckled but got a glass anyway. There was something about the image of Dorian chugging from a full bottle of wine that led directly to the image of many things bursting into flame, breaking, and generally ending up in chaos. A delightful notion, usually, but not in Josephine's office. “Here. Try not to make a wreck of yourself.”

“Hah! This from the man who tilted up a cask not three nights ago. Brilliant.” Dorian received the glass and bottle with a wince, taking a moment to read the bottle's label. He frowned, but poured a full portion anyway.

The Iron Bull smiled as he sank back into the chair, sprawling his feet out towards the fire. Dorian was Good People. A Vint and a damned brat, but sweet despite it all. As beautiful inside as out, The Iron Bull had decided, save for a slight tendency towards cruelty. The Iron Bull would be lying if he said that Dorian had never crossed thought as a possible point of interest—but fortunately no one had ever asked, so The Iron Bull had never needed to lie.

“I can't believe she's making him talk to every damned noble that happens to have their puffed sleeves within our walls. They all just want to say, 'Ooh! I was there! How terrible! The Inquisitor looked just _awful!'_ ” Dorian sat up enough to tilt back the glass of wine, throat moving as he drained it from full. The Iron Bull raised an eyebrow and took a swig from his own bottle.

Dorian wiped his mouth. “I mean, it _is_ true. That glowing bastard planted another scar on our dear Herald's head. I'm still trying to think of a way we can comb his hair to hide it. You know, he can't just walk around like that, looking like some common ruffian.” Dorian filled and downed a second glass before beginning to pour another. “I know you all think I am mad but it was the one thing Vivienne and I agreed on, so you know it must be true. People look to, well, looks. You can have the sharpest mind in Thedas and no one will listen if it looks like you should be herding druffalo. The only time you can get away with that sort of thing is if you're old—or a powerful darkspawn, I suppose. I dare say we aren't either of those. Not yet, anyway, with regards to age. I am in my prime, even if half the people I encounter seem to think anything over twenty-five is elderly. The Herald needs to come to understand this—he needs to stop acting like he can wear nothing more than a burlap sack and clogs.”

The Iron Bull shrugged, taking another pull from his bottle. It was fear prattle, nothing more. He'd seen Dorian and Boss get into a hundred arguments over nothing, just because they were afraid for each other's safety. They both had that bully response—get them in a corner and they became sharp. Never the victim when they could be the aggressor.

“How kind of you to let me talk to myself, by the way. I make for great conversation.”

The Iron Bull gestured at the door. “You just yelled two guys out of the room for talking to you.”

Dorian shifted, wincing with the motion. “One of them is a screaming horror and the other is best friends with the lyrium junkie that tried to relieve the world of my—of the Inquisitor, thank you. Let's not mention that I would have been back in the room hours earlier if Varric hadn't tempted me to a game of Wicked Grace. So yes, their very voices are anathema to me in every way. How astute of you.”

“But you want me to say something? This isn't some sort of peculiar Vint trap?”

“Well, you'll just have to test it to see, won't you?”

The Iron Bull tilted the bottle up until there was nothing left. “You fought well,” he said with a smack of his lips. “Even with the element of surprise that would have been a near impossible battle.”

“I—thank you.” Dorian stared into his glass, his hair falling forward over his forehead. The past two days were written all over him, manifesting through the prominent shadow of stubble on his jaw, the paleness to his skin, and the smeared lines of kohl from rubbing his eyes.

“You know—” Dorian's voice caught and he cleared his throat. He sipped at his wine and stared into the fire. The Iron Bull let him. Patience always led to greater revelations.

“You know, Bull, there was a distinct moment when I thought I had gotten the person I adore most in this world killed. It was not a comfortable feeling.”

A quiet settled between them and The Iron Bull's thoughts drifted towards the comforts of the Qun. They hit against a hard wall, an impulse that he had planted the moment he watched his world explode before him. That was what loving someone meant, regardless of the sort of love. The Iron Bull got it. He felt it ten times over for his guys.

“I often disparage others over their use of excessive blood magic and their unhealthy obsessions with demons, especially over something so...sentimental as affection. But, odd as it is, I think I would have done anything to keep our dense-headed, over-read and over-opinionated Herald alive. Anything.” Dorian looked over to Bull, a half smile under red eyes. “That's horribly selfish of me, isn't it?”

“Don't you pride yourself on being selfish?”

Dorian snorted and took another sip of wine. “I suppose I do. Maybe selfish isn't the word—maybe it's desperation. Or, I suppose, temptation. Yes—that's what bothers me the most. I have never before been tempted to do something evil. I suppose “evil” is a poor, tawdry way to put it—I mean truly grievous: pain for pain's sake, fear to feed fear. I've never wanted to slowly bleed a person and gain their strength in order to win a duel, or cram a demon down my own throat in order to add a wing to my house. I make quite a social living off of mocking those that do.

“But,” Dorian said, swirling the wine in his glass, “I wanted this man to hurt. I wanted him to die screaming. He would have, if you hadn't broken down the door.”

The Iron Bull still didn't truly understand what he had seen upon bursting into the room, Sera behind him. An elf, glowing and screaming on the ground, Dorian rigidly prone, seemingly bleeding to death with a hand out stretched. The Iron Bull hadn't asked for clarification. He and Sera had the same mind: most magic was something a well placed boot could handle and the rest wasn't worth thinking about. The less they knew, the better they would sleep. “I could have made an earlier entrance if the door wasn't locked, you know.”

Dorian gave another snort and drained the glass. “ _You_ spend a lifetime in Tevinter living against the grain. Let me know how many doors you leave unlocked after _that_ adolescence.”

The Iron Bull laughed. “You Southerners and your moral hangups. I will never understand the point.”

“I am not a Southerner. And the point is that I habitually lock doors when I enter a room in which I intend to enjoy myself. It is a matter of propriety, if nothing more. I have learned my lesson and will first scope the room for assassins from now on, I assure you.”

“I am sure Cullen will supply more than a few people to do that for you.” The Iron Bull tossed his bottle into the fire, wincing for a moment as he realized that Josephine would likely disparage such an action. “It's not temptation.”

“I'm sorry?” Dorian was focused on filling his final glass. He tossed the bottle with the same nonchalance as Bull, though it bounced off of a piece of wood and rolled away. “Whoops.”

“Wanting to hurt someone to protect those you love—that's not temptation.”

“Well, it's not honorable. Nor sensible.”

“No. It's a reflex. The way we fight—we learn not to listen to the old reflexes, the fight or flight tendencies that keep us moving as kids, as rookies. We learn to make ourselves brave; we teach ourselves methods that rarely fail and make those our new reflexes. It's how we survive the sort of life we lead. But sometimes we're faced with something like this, something we haven't trained for. We have to go to the old reflexes. Listen to the gut instead of listening to what we've learned.”

“That doesn't sound like the Qun to me, Bull.”

“No, not really.”

“So is that what you did when you saved the Chargers? Listened to your gut?”

“Yeah.”

“Too much time around us Southerners. Getting addled.” Dorian shook his head. “Sorry, that was rude of me. If it's any consolation I've always thought you did the right thing. Krem is one of the best men I know and Dalish is a brilliant archer—or duelist, or whatever it is she tells everyone, I don't remember. She's good at what she does. I can only assume that the rest of them are just as worthy.”

“Yeah, my guys are the best there are.” It didn't make the Qunari on the dreadnought any less worthy. It didn't change the fact that The Iron Bull's entire life was now devoid of—but there was that wall, keeping him from falling in too deep.

“You know what, you raise a good point. Listen to my gut—my gut says that our dear Inquisitor and Lady Montilyet aren't going to be back any time soon. It says that Cassandra and Cullen are going to frown and grunt until our prisoner dies of boredom. It says that you, me, and Sera need to go talk to the prisoner our way. Right now.”

The Iron Bull snorted, only to push himself up as Dorian suddenly wobbled to his feet.

“Don't you snort at me. Picture it—picture Sera off the leash. Can you imagine?”

The Iron Bull could imagine. The whole charade would likely die at the tavern door. “What you need right now is more rest.”

Dorian frowned, swaying slightly. “How dull. I expected more from you, of all people. Where's your sense of adventure?”

“Right where it should be. Yours has probably been knocked around a bit.”

Dorian nodded slowly, drooping a bit under the growing effects of the wine. “I suppose you may be right. I think my insides are still sliding about in the wrong directions.”

The Iron Bull snorted a laugh and stood. “I'll help you to your room.”

“The Inquisitor's room, if you could be so helpfully scandalous.” Dorian held to The Iron Bull's proffered arm and slowly balanced himself. “I do ask that you search that idiotic balcony over the bed for me. Monsters in the closet I can handle, but I get enough of them falling from above in the workplace. Can't bring that sort of thing home, can we?”

The Iron Bull gently led Dorian and opened the door. “Don't worry,” he promised, “I'll even check under the bed.”

 

 


	3. A Man of Waning Vitality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris wouldn't say a word to the former magister, wouldn't say a word to anyone who came down to see him. Not to the commander and his Seeker, nor to the Qunari or the Inquisitor's mage lover. He said nothing to the cloaked figure with the sharp knives and clear orders to threaten yet not harm. Fenris wouldn't even speak to Varric, though the dwarf had come every day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof. This was definitely the hardest part of the fic to write. Turns out that dealing with loss isn't fun, especially when the only thing you are able to do is think about the person in question! But the night is darkest before the dawn, cue a group of freezing Havenites singing in the snow, the dawn will come, etc. 
> 
> (I had to constantly stop myself from writing, "AND THEN HAWKE ENTERED THE ROOM AND WAS ALLS, "MY BAD I GOT BETTER" AND FENRIS WAS HAPPY FOREVER. THE END." Needless to say I'm going to go fill up on fix-it fics, now.)

They had taken everything.

His sword, of course, and his armor. They'd taken his leathers and made him put on roughspun. They'd even taken the red scarf he always tied around his wrist, and the small crest at his hip.

There's a story just like this, he could almost hear her say, if you find the book that holds it.

Fenris groaned and pressed his hands to his eyes. One of his hands protested at the movement, still sore despite the magical healing. It had been five days—easy enough to keep track of—since Fenris had blinked awake to a dizzy blur of pain and fear. They'd left him like that, promising worse, until the Inquisitor himself came down and demanded that Fenris receive medical attention. Fenris flexed his fingers; the magic had done well to heal the breaks, even if it had not healed him to completion.

It was fitting, Fenris supposed, that the man he had tried to kill was the one to insist upon Fenris being healed. An ever present joke insisting that healing only come from men Fenris despised.

The Maker has a sense of humor—something else she would always say. Or had it been Varric? Fenris felt his thoughts slide around in a confused toss of names and dates. Another joke, of course, that he would experience new problems with his memory.

But he knew where he was and worse, why he was there. That seemed clear enough. He scratched his bare wrist, surprised at the comparative tenderness of the skin there. That he'd worn the cloth for so long—he hadn't realized. His eyes snapped open—had he ever discussed it with her? Told her why, even during the times he threw her crest down in annoyance, the scarf always remained?

You stole that from my room, she'd accused him once, though her eyes had been carefully teasing. It was still early, then, still close to when he had left—too soon for easy confidence.

Fenris shook his head. That couldn't have been the only discussion. Truly he must have told her why—

There was laughter from the magister's cell. Former magister, according to Varric, some permanent prisoner who had become rather respected within the Inquisition. He tried to speak to Fenris now and then, calling across questions about the markings on Fenris's skin, making one or two mentions of Danarius by name. Fenris wouldn't say a word to the former magister, wouldn't say a word to anyone who came down to see him. Not to the commander and his Seeker, nor to the Qunari or the Inquisitor's mage lover. He said nothing to the cloaked figure with the sharp knives and clear orders to threaten yet not harm. Fenris wouldn't even speak to Varric, though the dwarf had come every day.

Fenris tried to look towards the magister's cell, only glimpsing the companion. It was the mage lover, leaning against a column and saying something sharp. The mage never took his eyes off of Fenris and, in keeping with the past two days, each time Fenris dared look up the mage would smile a slow, special smile, a ghost of a promise dancing about his teeth.

Fenris turned away from the mage and pressed into the stone, drawing himself up small. The markings glowed through the roughspun, making him feel unreasonably exposed. The stone vibrated gently, suggesting a great rushing of water. Had Hawke stood down here, seen the source of the water that shook the walls? Likely not, Fenris supposed—there would be little reason for the Champion of Kirkwall to come down to such a dungeon. The last body of water he could remember her by was the Wounded Coast. Not their last meeting—Fenris clenched his teeth against that memory—but just a few days before that, the sands strangely calm. He'd been reading that book to her—Maker, if only the name would come to him—a foolish love story given to him by Merrill years ago. Simple to read, for all its idiocy. It was one of the first things he'd ever read to Hawke, the book he read to her the most when frustrated with his inability, gaining more words with each pass. A chevalier tying a red favor to his wrist before going away to war—surely Fenris had told that he loved her then?

“Well,” the mage lover said loudly, the overdrawn tones drilling into Fenris's head, “one can't be proud of everything to come out of one's homeland. Some innovations are best tossed away before they sour a nation's entire reputation.”

Curse the spell that had slowed Fenris's sword; at least half a mage would be half again as quiet. Fenris closed his eyes and returned to the rumble of the stone. “If any harm comes to this man,” the Inquisitor had declared to his compatriots in front of Fenris's cell, “I will take myself to blame. His life is my responsibility. I intend to keep him safe.”

Safe. Fenris looked around the dungeon, keeping his eyes away from the mage. Two guards that he could see. Iron bars he could easily walk through, were there not countless guards in the keep ready to receive him. Poor lighting, except for a massive hole in the wall on the opposite end of the dungeon that let sunlight in and told the hour of the day. Fenris glanced up at the incredibly high ceilings. He was in what he believed to be the cell farthest from the entrance, with the magister to his right. The wall to the left rumbled the most as did that area of the floor, suggesting that the door he could see—with owls, of all things—was some sort of access to a waterway. There had been a moment during the past day that he had sketched out a possible water system in the dust, thinking there might be a dam, but he'd erased it in frustration.

He groaned again and closed his eyes. How he longed to erase her. Each memory, each gesture, each smell. He'd get rid of her eyes. Those were the worst; they looked right into him, loved him and hated him, mirrored back so many of the thoughts dancing through his own mind. They would have to be the first to go, followed by that quirk of her lips, that way she turned a smirk into a genuine smile. The way her eyes would work with her mouth to demonstrate emotions he didn't have words for.

Reading. Yes, the way she turned her head while listening to him read would have to be forgotten as well. The way she'd draw her finger across a line he didn't understand, the way she'd send him to the bookcase in search of a tale.

Touch. The painful brush of hands calloused from holding a staff, the teasing knock of a shoulder in the tavern. A drunken dance. A good decision poorly made, hands trying to prevent the sharp regret of walking away.

And that promise.

That damned promise that they would have a second chance. That they had time, any time at all, to just see each other again.

Maker, he couldn't stand it. There wasn't enough room within him to bear the loss. He felt that he had to split himself open just to begin to understand what he had yet to cope with.

“Step back from there, Sparkler.”

Fenris opened his eyes and tensed to see the mage leaning nonchalantly against the bars of Fenris's cell. The mage had done this before over the past day or two—baiting what was within, hoping for another chance to strike. Varric was dragging up his usual chair, marking the beginning of yet another frustrating evening. Fenris tried to draw on his anger but only managed more fatigue and the beginning pangs of a hunger for dinner.

“Calm yourself, Varric. I am just seeing to our guest.”

Varric planted the chair in place and rubbed his forehead. “Please, Dorian. I'm not in the mood for this today.”

The mage made a frustrated noise in his throat and turned to face Fenris, fingers wrapping around the bars. “You—”

Varric threw his hands up and wandered out of Fenris's sight. “Enough already, alright? We get it: Tevinter death promise, you're going to remove his skin and make it into a tent, tear his eyes out and place them so he can better watch, and on and on. We're impressed. Now let me speak to him in peace.”

The mage took no notice of the dwarf. “You have no idea what you almost took from me,” he hissed. “You will hurt before you threaten him again. You will hurt worse than ever before.”

Fenris drew back despite himself, skin burning with the memory of lyrium being shifted within the marks. The mage smiled, the extent of it reaching his eyes with dark sincerity. “You should have killed me, Liberati. You should have finished me first before going after him.”

“Maker's ass, Sparkler.” Varric reappeared with a stack of books, tumbling them next to the chair. “Go bother the Herald. I think I saw him wearing plaid. You better go do something.”

“Nice try. I threw out those trousers last week.” The mage released the bars with a smirk. “I'll leave you two to your one sided chat. Don't plot to murder anyone else I care about, if you could be so kind.”

Fenris watched the mage walk off, markings stinging under a sheen of sweat. His fingers twitched, sending a slow ache through his arm.

“He's just a bit rattled,” Varric noted, eyes following Dorian's departure farther than Fenris could. “He's actually one of the kindest people I know. Just has a tendency towards violence, rage, and eerily specific threats when crossed. More bark than bite. A little like you, though you'll hate my saying that.” Varric brushed off his hands, resting his attention on Fenris. “Speaking of which, are you going to talk to me today?”

Fenris resettled on the stone floor, crossing his legs and straightening his back. He glared at the dwarf, pushing all the hate he could into the look. You're why she's dead, dwarf—but that wasn't true, not exactly, and the emotion fled him. The glare became a stare, the stare a mere resting of the eyes.

“Right. Well, I'll give you the updates. The Inquisitor figured out that you came through the Eluvian. He's having talks with Briala about her letting murderously unstable individuals have the run of all but instant transportation. She's disavowed all relations to you—claims to have never met you. She and her people remain loyal to the Inquisition, blah blah blah. So, I wouldn't expect any help from that front.”

Fenris shrugged. He didn't expect help; he expected his head on a spike.

“I am currently trying to contact your buddy Sebastian. He's on the outs with the Inquisition at the moment—and definitely on the outs with me—but I'm hoping he'll behave himself for you. I know that Hawke's decision—”

“Do not say her name.” Fenris and Varric stared at each other in equal surprise. Fenris dropped his eyes first, focusing on his feet. His throat hurt with the words—when was the last time he had spoken? To the elves, perhaps, when securing his right to the mirror.

“Fenris?”

Fenris cleared his throat. He didn't want to keep talking—but Maker, he _had_ to. He had to spread the hurt. It was so stuck inside of him— “You do not get to say her name.”

“Come on, Fenris.”

A small tendril of the rage snaked within him; he gasped at it, drew it into his lungs. “You let her die. She trusted you, Varric, and you let her die.” It felt good to say. His blood warmed, his muscles popped and relaxed. He stood and began to pace.

Varric's eyes went wide and wet. “For shit's sake—”

“You should have never let her venture into the Fade.”

Varric jumped to his feet, chair scraping into the pile of books. “Oh, why didn't I think of that! Stay out of the Fade—what a novel idea!”

“You should have protected her.”

“What do you think I was doing, wiping my ass the whole time? We fell through—” He glanced at the guards, two heads turned towards them in alarm. “We were in an unfamiliar situation. All we did was fight and protect each other. You think I wouldn't throw my life down for her—”

“You let her stay behind to die.”

“I didn't know, alright? I was already through the—the door, already gone. I thought she was right behind me!”

Fenris felt his markings glow, the sharp rake of their awareness burning away the last of the residual fear. He grabbed the bars, pressing his fingers into them until they echoed back at him. “I would have never let her fall behind me. There's never been one moment that I was unaware of her presence.”

Varric grabbed the bars in response, face twisted in a rage that Fenris had never before seen. “Well then, if you are so aware maybe you could have spoken up and followed her. But no, you have to be the silent, brooding elf, leaving the rest of us to guess at what could be going through your fucking mind! Leaving us to do a job you should have done!”

Fenris let his fingers fall from the bars, the anger slipping away beside the flare of his marks. Varric was right. All of the vengeance in Thedas wouldn't erase guilt rightfully assigned.

 _I'll always be ready when you have need of me._ He would give anything to have uttered his true intention. He'd been ready then—willing, even. Beyond willing. But his words had fled him as they had so many times before: at the shuddering whisper of clothes shamefully drawn on, at the self-hating cry of a daughter who could not save her mother. Silence, redirection. Leaving the hard work for another to accomplish.

That was almost the worst thing, second only to the spreading tear of her loss. The abomination would have gone with her, Fenris knew. Everything aside, despite all the death and magic and aberration—given even the slightest chance, the slightest knowledge of the situation, Anders would have kept to her side and kept her alive. Fenris, once again, could only sit back and watch Hawke suffer, words left stuck in his throat. I'll always be ready when you have need of me, he had said, but it had been the wrong thing. Always the wrong thing.

“Shit, Fenris. I didn't mean that.” Varric scratched his chin and went back to his chair. “You know I blame myself, alright? She has a whole ragtag group of friends, all blaming ourselves for...this. She'd—well. She'd hate it.”

The fire was gone from his markings, leaving an ache in its stead. He slid down to sit on the floor. He pressed his head against the wall, feeling the vibration in the stone.

“Here, I brought you these books—only two are by me, so don't give me any trouble for being self promoting. I picked out ones I thought you would like. Oh, and I know how you love histories. Dorian—the stylish mage who wants to torture you to death—recommended this one to me a while back and I thought of you the whole time I read it. I was going to get it to you earlier, but, well—here. These are just fun things, easy to read. Help you pass the time and get out of your thoughts.”

Fenris squeezed his eyes closed. He heard the dwarf dropping books through the bars. “I don't read anymore.”

“Well, half the battle is having the time, and here we are—”

“I can't. Not anymore.”

“Ah. Well here they are regardless, if you change your mind.” There was a silence, only slightly punctuated by Varric's uneven breathing. “Fenris. I didn't mean it, not one bit. I'm just—shit. I don't even know if there's a word for this. I'm lost.”

Fenris kept his eyes closed. If he pushed inward enough he could get back to the fuzzy place, the place where memories were confused and ill defined, the place that kept him safe from the bad memories and even safer from the good ones. But she was always there, sudden and sharp, present just when he thought he had escaped her. He'd had a dream the night before. He'd been following her and for once he had been able to finally catch her. He'd put his hand on her arm and she'd stared at him as though he were mad. Hawke, he had said, you're Hawke. No, I'm not, had been her reply. Then she had slipped away.

“I am sorry, Fenris. Shit.”

Another dream, and perhaps the cruelest: She'd been leading him somewhere, pulling him on a sled through snow. He'd begged her to stop. You're not real. You're dead, Hawke. But she had smiled at him, smiled at him while contradicting each exclamation. He'd closed his eyes and started sobbing, even as she comforted him, even as she held him close. He'd cried so hard he'd left her arms and risen into the sky—only to wake cold and shaking on the stone, with weeping eyes.

I can't do this anymore. Those were the words he wanted to say, but as always they would not come.

Fenris heard the scrape of the chair as the dwarf slid it back to its place. “I'll let you know as soon as Sebastian gets back to me.”

“Don't.” Fenris let his eyes slide open. “Don't contact Sebastian. I didn't come here expecting to live.”

Varric stepped up and stood with his hand loosely gripping the cross bar, eyes locked on his boots. “I know, Fenris.”

Fenris swallowed. “I have not changed that expectation.”

Varric shook his head. “Maker's ass, Fenris. Look, I know that the last thing you think you want right now is a friend.” He resettled his fingers on the cross bar. “But I'm still your friend whether you like it or not, elf. And besides, the only thing that would be sure to piss off Haw—the Champion more than letting you kill the Inquisitor would be letting you die this side of gray hair. Er, metaphorically speaking.”

Fenris snorted and drew up his legs.

“Look, Fenris. This is hard for both of us. No shit—it always will be. What else is there to say? I could map out each wound she snags in me, each breath that she seems to rip away. But what's the point? It's not going to help.” Varric shrugged and let his hand drop. “I just want to get to a place where you and I can sit at a table and get so drunk that I don't remember my name. Shit, so I don't remember any of it.”

“There's no such place, Varric. You said it yourself—there is no point. I live and she is dead. I see only one possibility in which there is any peace and it does not include drinks in a tavern.”

“Stop it. You can't even hear yourself.” Varric glanced to Fenris, eyes darting back down just as quickly. “You're a part of her, alright? A part of—of who she was. I can't lose another part of her.”

“That is not for you to say.”

“Yeah, well. I can be persistent and I usually get my way.” Varric tried a smile. “Come on, Fenris. Surely you know that by now.” The smile faded, giving in to a look of determination. “I'll get you home again, Fenris. Home, in every sense of the word. It will be easier on both of us if you allow me to help.”

Fenris let his eyelids drop and pressed into the rumble of the water. He could see it if he tried hard enough: the warm glow of Varric's lodgings, the array of furniture and books. He could feel the stickiness of the table, the uncomfortable dampness of an unchecked chair. He could hear the cacophony of the rest of the Hanged Man, the clinking of mugs and shouts of drunks. Varric would close the door and the noise would only get louder, exploding with the roar of Isabela's laugh, the sharp protestations from Aveline. He could hear Varric chastise the drink boy for only bringing one round and the wavering thrum of a lute as Merrill took to song. He could hear someone call his name, someone ask him if he was paying attention. If you rather carouse with the others I'll let you, the voice teased. He smiled at her, cleared his throat. No, he said. I'll keep reading.

Fenris opened his eyes. Varric was gone; the guards had rotated and the sun had given way to darkness and a sharp breeze. Fenris looked to the pile of books on the cell floor. He moved forward and put them in a stack, largest to smallest. The history Varric had mentioned was a title on the Fog Warriors. Fenris took a deep breath and lifted the cover.


	4. The Roaring Sound of Being Human

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The more human Cole becomes the easier it becomes to ignore the hurt in others.

It is harder to listen. The roaring sound of being human crowds in—no, presses over the whisper of what is actually true. Physical noise is clamoring for attention over actual, unyielding hurt—the hurt is ignored. The more human Cole becomes the easier it becomes to ignore the hurt in others. People are loud and shouting, loud in action and loud in thought because they need to ignore the hurt in other hearts. This fact coils within Cole, giving him his own hurt to ignore.

It is good to be back in Skyhold. Kirkwall is large and dirty and exciting but Skyhold is home, the cool-warm air slipping into his nose to make him wistful, the pressing noise of becoming a person quieting to something that lets him listen. Skyhold, a good and bad beginning because it is the place where he was born but also the place where he died. The last place where he knew how to help.

If he could help he would silence the voices, the shouting shatter of a friendship, the words sharpened to blunt yet forceful points. Dorian and Varric, their hurts so obvious that Cole doesn't need to listen to feel the shape of it. Each one turning the other mean, hurting, ripping—salting the earth so no future friendship can grow.

Cole closes his eyes against the glow of Varric's room and presses his hands to his ears. It is too much, too much for even a human to hear. He draws in a breath, warm with the deceivingly cozy fire and thick with trailing smoke. He opens his mouth and makes his own noise.

“Stop it!”

Their noise does as he tells it. Four eyes stare at him from two different levels, two different firmly held beliefs. He says it again to keep Dorian's expression from becoming sound.

“Stop it.”

Varric heaves a sigh—more noise, noise to cover up all of the hurt inside of him. He runs a hand down his face, dwindling in his own motion. “I'm...I'm sorry, kid.”

An apology to the wrong person, noise again, and more determined evasion. Another sigh and a hand in the air, waving them off, waving himself out of the conversation, out of the situation, out of _all of it—_ Cole can still hear that much, can still feel the _all of it_ resting somewhere atop Varric's heart. It is why he has to leave at moments like these, why he has to walk out on everyone, even Cole.

“All the loyalty in the world doesn't excuse willful ignorance,” Dorian shouts at the closing door. Cole doesn't say that Dorian's words come from the fear that lives within him. Cole doesn't fill the air with things Dorian already knows.

This doesn't stop Dorian from looking at Cole expectantly, retaliation already forming somewhere behind his eyes. When Cole stays silent Dorian sighs but it is a different sigh from Varric's, one to underline emotion instead of drowning it out. Dorian cannot speak his feelings with words—cheap and fickle things, words, elusive double meanings stripping everything of anything. He speaks in sighs, in gestures, in eyebrows raised over gentle or cruel or laughing eyes.

“Well, now that we've sunk this low, want to take a walk around the grounds?” An apology in the joke, but not to Cole. To himself, to Varric, to anyone who would listen but not hear. Cole follows Dorian in answer, accepts the apology on the behalf of the others.

The grounds are green and warm; it is not natural but it is good. The cold breeze slips from somewhere above them, tracing the truth of their place in the world, their perch on the mountain, their keep older than almost anyone Cole has ever known.

 _Forget_ , a memory tells him, so Cole forgets.

Dorian leads them to a quiet table in the garden, his favorite spot. He plays chess there, pieces in the shapes of tiny creatures with their own lives, their own relationships and their own wars. Cole can feel as much emotion off the pieces as he can off of most people, these days. This grows a hurt in him because now there is nothing, just silence and whatever the people are willing to give.

Dorian sits and when he gestures at the board he does so with all his years of metered upbringing, all the wealth of carefully nurtured habit. Cole sits and lets some of his own hurt drain away. Even within the silence people give away great deals of themselves and never know it.

“Do you play?”

Cole smiles. He smiles because Dorian has forgotten. “No,” Cole says. “I know the pieces. That's a knight. He's not actually a horse.”

This draws Dorian's warmest smile, the one he gives when he approves of you, when he would hate to see you go. “A good start, then. Here, I'll walk you through a game.”

Dorian does just that, the pieces easy in his fingers, the rules easy on his tongue. Cole watches and moves and watches again, the shape of a memory forming, slipping upwards and out and he can almost see it, can almost untangle it from the rest.

Dorian looks up at him, raises an eyebrow. “Cole! Are you cheating? I thought you were only to read minds for good. Shame!”

Cole holds Dorian's eyes, holds them to his own even though it means that Dorian can see as much of Cole as Cole can of Dorian. Dorian's expression slips into a frown, slips into worry.

“Your father,” Cole says, and that is all, the only shape the memory will take. Cole tries to push away the frustration but it presses at his eyes, closes his fists. He tilts his head down, the hat sending him away, allowing him that much.

“Ah. Yes.” Dorian makes a move on the chessboard, gestures with a quick snap. Cole blinks under his hat, unsure of what is expected. “I would play with my father on occasion—no, that is not entirely so. I would play with him rather often, actually. He taught me the game during more, well. During different times.” Dorian sighs and the sigh is a melancholy happiness, a wan regard of childhood. “I can still recall the first time I defeated him. I was only ten, perhaps, or eleven. He was well known for his skill with the game and had always been regretful that he had not started me out sooner. He was worried I'd never catch up to his standards, you see.” Fingers slipped into Cole's line of sight, gently knocking over Cole's largest piece, the piece whose pair Cole has been holding even when he wasn't supposed to, clenched tight in his fist.

“He was shocked when I cornered him—he had to go over the board three times to be sure, to see how I did it. When he was satisfied he sat back in his chair, looked me in the eye and said, 'No one has a mind like my boy. _No one._ ' I remember there being something close to emotion in his eyes. Pride, I suppose.” A different sigh, anger injected over the pain, anger in any direction that would receive it. “I wonder if he thinks about that, sometimes, and feels a bit sick at his own hypocrisy, sick at the fact that he once admired the very mind he later longed to destroy.” A third sigh, a final sigh, a full stop. “Oh well. It is a foolish thing to waste one's time thinking about.”

“I'm sorry.” Cole opens his fist and frowns at the chess piece within, leaving its red mark against his pale skin. “I don't know how to help. I can't—” but he has to stop talking, lest the words come out swamped by noise.

“What do you mean?” Eyebrows up, eyes sincere in their surprise. “You _are_ helping, Cole. You're keeping me company and letting me beat you at chess. What more is possibly needed?”

Dorian and his smiling eyes, sincere and comfortable—rare. Cole takes the smile and returns one of his own.

It is true that Cole does not win at chess; the piece he had been clutching was something called a queen, something incredibly important. Dorian explains this as they walk to the tavern. The tavern is as it has always been, though Cole knows it is more an idea than an actual place, more a moment than a location. Cole glances towards the door leading down to the dungeon. Varric is still trying to get back to his tavern, even when he's within its walls.

Iron Bull is there—and Sera, though she frowns when her eyes touch Cole. Cole looks to the stairs and lets himself drift away, up and up, rising to a quiet corner where he can still hear. He does not expect Dorian to follow him but the steps do not stop, measured and correct, back straight after too many admonishments from Mother.

Cole stands in his corner and takes a deep breath. It is easier to listen, here.

“Cole, I have a rather serious question. It may not be fair to ask you, but I need to know.” Dorian looks over the rafters, nose crinkling at dust, the rest of the body unaware. “You've seen his mind. What should we do with the elf?”

The always question regarding their always predicament— _the elf_. Everyone sparing whispers for the elf, for Fenris, memories so tangled that Cole is unsure he would have ever been able to sort them out. A new pain so loud it screams when whispering, the words wrong, so wrong that they killed her. _I'll always be ready when you have need of me—_ a lie, his hands empty when she died, empty and elsewhere, his mind set to other things. No saving her, no reunion, no forgiving embrace—no life together. The only hope some great release, some sudden death or the right figure miraculously coming through the right door.

“Some nights the pain is so great that it doesn't hurt at all. Some nights he can dream her face and feel nothing. He thought he would have known what it was to feel nothing, before, when his life was chains and measures. This feeling is different. It is deeper, like fear without the terror.” Cole takes his hat off, dropping the chess piece in the process. Dorian's eyes follow the piece as it rolls, his face a mask of stricken rage, the vengeful panic in his heart bleeding over the rest of who he truly is.

“I don't care about that creature's pain,” he hisses, voice like the adder on his clothing, poison for any who would trod where feet should not fall. “I _don't care_ that he lost someone dear to him. I _don't care_ that his life has been impossible only to have been made even more difficult. When will people begin to understand that _I do not fucking care_?” Eyes on fire, arms crossed, chin jerking upwards to make the point, to draw volume into words said quietly. “I just want to know if that thing should be dead, lest he seek vengeance anew.”

“Once I would have killed him,” Cole offers. He turns the hat in his hands, the leather old and smooth, the smell a comforting hand on a back. “You have to kill them when they hurt that much. They look you in the eye when you do it. They thank you.” Cole looks up to witness the moment of his truth-telling, to see the careful consternation on Dorian's face. “I don't do that anymore.”

A snort to push away the uneasiness, an eyebrow to hide the emotion's existence. “I suppose that's a productive change to make.”

“Fenris sees Varric. He sees Varric and he remembers something good. The pain still hurts but it is better with a friend.” Cole blinks, the hat slipping in his fingers, falling but not all the way. His fingers tightening, closing on the edge of the brim as he closes upon his words. “Varric helps Fenris even when Varric cannot help himself.”

Dorian sighs, frustrated, scared, worried that he is wrong for wishing the elf dead, that he has been wrong all along. Dorian is leaving soon, Cole sees, back to another life. Leaving soon and fighting the fear—fear so great that it is known fact—that one day he will be in the elf's place, alone and wracked by the utterance of the wrong words.

Cole shakes his head. He is so close to the right of it. “People...grow. They have to. I have to grow now, because I'm a person. Fenris needs to keep growing, because he's a person. I didn't see that before. That is why I would kill them. Then I knew someone who taught me that it's better to let them grow, even if they hurt.” Cole looks into Dorian's eyes, past the sound of the fear. “Don't you think so?”

There is silence in lack of movement, in eyes studying the chess piece on the floor, in the whisper of a hat turning in twitching hands. Dorian stoops and picks up the chess piece, long fingers wrapping around it, shielding it from sight. He stares at his closed hand and Cole can hear nothing, can't find the feeling in the other man.

Dorian sighs and it is just a sigh. He moves forward with his measured steps and takes one of Cole's hands, placing the queen in it and closing Cole's fingers.

“Thank you, Cole,” he says, but then he walks away. Cole cannot tell if he helped.

Cole sits on the floor. He balances the queen on one knee and his chin on the other. He peers at her, feeling her stillness as a slight weight within the noise of the tavern, the trill of the music, the bark of Sera's laughter below. A small, silent piece of bone, a life carved from something dead. He shifts and she topples, falling to lie forgotten but instead landing light in Cole's fingers, his aid meeting her silent need.


	5. A Man of Drifting Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That was the greatest irony, perhaps. That no matter what lessons he learned, no matter the books and the friendship and the growing acceptance of there being something more to life—no matter the patience—it all went back to the old lessons.

He'd lost track of the time. After the commander of the guard had installed new devices to ensure that the cell was opaque to Fenris’s marks, the days had finally slipped out of notice, becoming nothing more than simple vessels to hold sun and weather and Varric's nattering stories. Time, as far as Fenris was concerned, was a full stomach or an empty one, a need to sleep or a need for the privy. Time wasn't really much of anything more than animal function, even now. Especially now.

That was the greatest irony, perhaps. That no matter what lessons he learned, no matter the books and the friendship and the growing acceptance of there being something more to life—no matter the patience—it all went back to the old lessons. Eat. Sleep. Perform and repeat. A pattern to find something in. Not comfort; comfort was a warm hearth in a tavern, a single beloved voice raised over the voices of others, a beer forgotten so long that it had gone warm. Comfort was gone from him. What he could have was regularity, predictability. Eat food and become full. Sleep through the night and become rested. Behave well and receive a larger meal. Eat that meal and become full. A pattern with which to move time.

He traced his eyes over the same cracks and moldings that he'd been staring at for—days, weeks. Months. The pattern did little to solve everything. There was still _her._ Always pressing on the edge of things, her voice a constant susurrus through his thoughts, her presence an ever fading scent through a closing door. He could bring her forward, he had learned, if he remembered the right things.

“You know, I once asked her about children. That mage always wanted children, did you know that?”

Fenris looked up; sometimes the dwarf was there to hear his words, sometimes not. Always silent upon hearing them, as though fearing to startle Fenris back into his reverie.

Varric wasn't there, but Fenris felt like telling the story anyway. He supposed that was what writing was for—another false avenue to life, another thing she was too dead to teach him. He pitched his voice low.

“I had never thought about children myself, but I always thought she would be a great mother. She laughed in my face when I said that, but not in a harsh way. Said that she had already made a mess of being a daughter and a sister, why not make a mess of being a mother too. Then she asked me if I was ever going to have kids.”

One of the guards coughed. Fenris lowered his voice even lower, the whispered words barely passing his lips. “It was my turn to laugh. With my luck I would probably drop the babe and accidentally run it through on the catching. Made to kill, not to coddle, I joked. She got sad then.”

“I always thought you would be a wonderful father,” she said, her voice quiet in the way that meant she was serious, that she was close to something that could wound her.

“Unlikely. Even so, it is foolish to dwell upon. I doubt I will be caring for a babe anytime soon. You are the one who was close to it.”

“Not anymore,” she snorted, twitching her hair off of her forehead. “I removed myself from that relationship, you'll remember.”

“Oh, I remember.” Fenris couldn't help but smile. “Saw the whole breakup myself. Took long enough.”

“Yes, because _I_ am the one that takes too much time.”

“Shut it, Hawke.”

The silence between them was comfortable; such silences had been more comfortable than not since she had separated from the mage.

“Fenris?”

“Hawke.”

“You'd be an excellent father.”

“And you an excellent mother.”

She grinned wolfishly. “Something to think upon later, then.”

“No. Do not say such things.”

She frowned, puzzled. “Now what is it?”

“You are still dead, Hawke. Saying those things just makes you cruel.”

She left then, fading into whatever part of himself that still had some sanity. He leaned forward towards a piece of bread. He ate. He dozed.

“Carver was always a well meant annoyance,” Fenris murmured some time later. He looked up. There was darkness through the crack in the dungeon, just behind Varric. Varric raised an eyebrow.

“You can say that again, Broody. You can say it over and over until you fill a book.”

Fenris nodded. Varric was best at telling the tales, it was true; he had a way with settings that brought to mind the scent of a place, that summoned the right amount of grit to the teeth. All Fenris could do was conjure an image in his own head, a scene he was forever unable to pass on to others.

“Once when they were little, Hawke told me, Carver led them down to a creek. I forget what village they were in at the time. Some Ferelden mudpit.” He glanced up again. Varric was gone, the darkness giving way to the pale light of dawn.

“I don't remember the name myself,” he heard Hawke say. “But it was a cold, filthy place. My father was still alive.”

“Yes.” Fenris nodded, drawing his knees to his chin. “The creek was little more than—”

“—a wash of slightly wetter mud. 'I found a fish,' Carver kept saying, as though a damn fish was worth all the gold in Ferelden.”

“And the fish was stuck in the mud, twisting about, somehow stuck where there was no water at all.”

Hawke sighed. “Bethany wanted to save it, to drop it in a bucket and fill it with water from the well.”

“But Carver ran over and struck it with a rock, killing it.”

Hawke's lips warmed into a smile. “He was so proud of himself. He'd struck it just like Father had taught him.”

Fenris shook his head. “But Bethany screamed and cried and was inconsolable.”

“Until Mother let her summon the fire to cook it.”

Fenris sighed and pressed his cheek to his knee. “Why did you have to tell me all of these things? Why did I need to know any of this?”

Because I loved you, she could say, though he never heard her own voice say it. I care about you. She'd said that often enough—perhaps often enough to mean something.

Eat to become full, sleep to become rested, behave to be fed—enough of a life after all, and a far cry better than anything his younger self would have ever expected.

“What's wrong with it?”

There was something in that voice to inject a bit of the rage back into his blood. Fenris opened his eyes to glare at the mage paramour, a figure standing at the bars of the cell.

“He's been locked up for some time, my lord. He's not exercised nor walked in quite a while—he sleeps mostly, or mutters.”

“Hmm.” The mage leaned closer to the bars, eyebrows raised. “Going mad, are we?”

Fenris bared his teeth. He did it without thinking, an old trick for frightening Danarius's sycophants. He closed his mouth quickly, a cold rush descending his shoulders. Not that far—he couldn't go back that far.

“Such good manners. Well, guards, away with you. Up the stairs or through that door, I don't care, just out, out you go.”

Fenris could hear the guard shuffle from foot to foot. “My lord, we truly cannot do that. You shouldn't even be down here. The Inquisitor—”

“Is likely wondering why you aren't running off to report me. Come now, you two can stand just on the other side of the door—I promise to scream magnificently if the elf somehow begins killing me. And you, run off and report so you have a job in the morning. Tell a heart-wrenching tale about how I scorned you and threw you out. It won't be a lie, after all.”

“But—”

The affable voice took an edge. “Now, please.”

Fenris listened to the retreating footsteps; he stared as the two other guards passed in front of his cell and disappeared through the door. The mage sighed and scraped up Varric's chair.

“Power complexes, the lot of them. And you, are you sane enough to understand me? Hmm? Can you parse the words coming out of my mouth?”

Fenris pressed his teeth into his tongue until the flesh broke.

The mage crossed his legs and steepled his fingers. “Close enough. I just came down here to tell you that I hate you. Truly, inexorably, and undeniably. I think that Thedas is a worse place for your existence, and I thoroughly believe that any who feel fondness for you are giving in to some form of mental affliction. I desire few things more than I desire to rip the lyrium from your markings and watch you scream to death on that stone floor.”

Fenris spat blood. “Try it.”

“No.”

“Too afraid?”

“Too intelligent. You see, I am cursed with self-restraint. I understand the way that the world works and know that there is a time and a place to kill those that need to be killed. You, on the other hand, are a child with a big sword and a small brain.”

Fenris shifted his weight; shooting pain went up his sleeping legs. He bit his tongue once more, resisting the urge to stretch them out fully.

The mage looked Fenris up and down, giving a slight shake of his head. “Was this all truly a simple revenge plot? Kill the man who you _assume_ is responsible for your true love's death? Are you truly so wrapped up in Varric's drivel that _this_ was the best plan you could come up with?”

“You do not know anything,” Fenris snapped.

“I know plenty. I can't claim myself to be above that particular emotion—just the other day I wanted to lop someone's head off because he called me a 'freak and a spy.' Such sloppy words—not even a good insult. Nevertheless, I would have loved to see that man fall down a chasm, or at least step in horse shit. I didn't _make_ either of those things happen, however—that is called restraint. Restraint allows you to think of proper responses to the situation. It results in fewer temper tantrums.”

“Must you keep talking?” Fenris spat blood once more and flexed his waking legs against their pins and needles. “Your kind always talks too much. You all love the sound of your own voices. It reassures you, lets you know that you are the one in charge, if only for a moment.”

“My, what a speech.” The mage leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I _do_ love the sound of my own voice. It is a wonderful voice. I must admit, however, that you raise a good point; the guard could be down here with Cullen any moment.”

“You are—”

“Shut up. You killed Danarius, yes? Your old master.”

Fenris blinked and bunched his muscles. “Why would you think that?”

“A magister performs the most complete branding ever known to man and you think it goes unnoticed? We _alti_ are self-centered, not blind. Regardless, you killed him, likely as punishment for the horrible way that he treated you. Fitting, really—he was an atrocious man and deserved to suffer. I hope his death was both terrifying and slow. I am sure that you planned for it accordingly, sought out allies, hatched schemes. You didn't just burst into his bedchamber and wave your sword about.”

“My waving my sword about nearly won me your death, mage.”

The mage waved a hand. “Yes, yes, you are very good at that aspect of what you do. But I am correct, am I not? And seeing as how I am correct, I can't help but wonder why you didn't apply the same alacrity to your current bout of vengeance. You are, after all, close friends with a member of the Inquisition's inner circle. You could have infiltrated our very core, had you thought to.”

Fenris pressed his nails into the palms of his hands. “My thoughts are none of your business. You do not know—”

“—what you have lost, etcetera, etcetera. That is definitely true. I only have a sick sort of enraged terror to draw from, courtesy of yourself. Nevertheless, merely speaking to Varric about the matter would have revealed a few things, perhaps.” The mage counted on a finger. “One: that the Inquisitor tried to keep Hawke from staying behind in the Fade.”

“He did not try hard enough.”

“Yes, there are always critics. Two: that the Inquisitor falls into the Fade like children fall into mud, so, if you hadn't wasted your time faffing about, perhaps we could have worked together to find your lost lady love.”

“You are lying.” Varric had already ended that line of questioning; the Inquisitor had no control over the Fade at all, far as Fenris understood.

“Just because it is a gross abstraction doesn't make it a lie. Three: that the very mage that you tried to cut in half is a necromancer who regularly addresses spirits in the Fade.”

This was news. Fenris rose into a crouch despite the needling shoots of pain in his legs. “You can speak with spirits?”

The mage narrowed his eyes. “Did I not just say that?”

“So you could find Hawke—you could address her. You could see what remains.”

“Perhaps.”

“Will you?”

The mage snorted. “Absolutely not. I fucking hate you, as you'll recall. You tried to cut me in half in order to better kill my own true heart. The most I'll be doing for you is restraining myself from returning the favor. But, before you loose that undoubtedly clever quip in my direction, that doesn't mean there aren't others like me. A whole nation of them, in fact.”

Fenris glanced towards his most recent stack of books. “Nevarra.”

The mage glanced to the stack of books as well. “Quite.”

Fenris shook his head. “It is not as though necromancers walk those streets openly, plying their wares.”

“I wouldn't know. I've only been the once. You’ll need to go for yourself to learn anything of value.”

The joke was an elaborate one, Fenris had to admit. “So you mock me after all.”

The mage fixed himself with an incredulous look that would have made Isabela proud. “Maker end this--what are you _on_ about?”

“You would hold opportunity before me, only to note the ways I cannot undertake it.” Fenris dug his nails into his palms. “I can no more go to Nevarra than I can leave this keep. You mock me.”

“I _mock_ you?” The mage cried out a laugh, eyes turning to the heavens. “You dim-witted, idiotic, backwards _fool_ of an ingrate,” the mage rejoined, snapping his eyes back to Fenris. “This is the one moment of your undesired stay that I am the farthest from disdaining your--all of you. I am trying to plant an idea in that barren husk of a mind, so that when the Inquisitor inevitably loses his good sense and releases you to the world you’ll have something to do besides turning around and running him through.”

“Banter with yourself all you will, mage. The Inquisitor will have my head before he lets me out of here.”

“I can dream, you can dream--we can all dream of you dead and gone.” The mage stood at a distant scuffling sound in the stairwell. “If you want your dreams to ever mean anything, however,” the mage said, staring down his nose, “you’ll make your way to Nevarra as soon as the Inquisitor lets you go.”

Fenris fought to stand; the motion went surprisingly smoothly, though he had to rest his legs by stumbling forward to grip the bars tightly in his hands. “And why should I trust you? What keeps you from turning on me the moment I step out of the gates?”

There was a loud clang in the stairwell, and the distinct shout of the Commander’s voice. “Oh,” the mage smiled, “you shouldn’t trust me. Or,” he continued, face taking on a peculiar expression, “perhaps trust only this: I shall never seek you out. The least of my worries amount to much more than the likes of you. Once you are out of my life I shall endeavor for it to remain so. But know this.” The mage stepped forward and clapped his hands over Fenris’s; Fenris tried to jerk back at the sudden pain, a whisper of the agony brought on by their first encounter. The mage gripped tighter, manicured fingernails biting into Fenris’s skin.

“If I ever see you again--be it on accident, be it while you are scuttling through this keep in the dark, while we are locked in battle on the same side, or while we are old and content, bouncing who knows what grandchildren on our knees--I will kill you. Slowly. I will make you regret each moment you were ever alive--and no word from my most dear will stop me.”

The mage pulled his hands away; Fenris managed to keep to his feet, though the world rocked beneath him. He looked down at his hands; the marks were tinged with the red of his blood, even as the white glow slid back in place.

“Good luck finding your girlfriend,” the mage said, turning on his heel just as the door burst open to a cacophony of sound. The mage set into his list of niceties, even as the Commander shouted at him and all but dragged him from the dungeon.

Fenris moved to the back of his cell and drew up his knees. He blew on the backs of his hands, fingers twitching at the pain. He glanced at his stack of books, mind drifting towards Nevarra.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have the distinct feeling that Dorian would be TERRIFYING should anyone cross someone he loves.


End file.
